


The Bonds of Homesickness

by mosscoveredking, TicciCam7



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Found Family, Headaches & Migraines, I promise this fic is supposed to be happy, Isolation, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Other, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Sick Character, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Yearning, at first, but things aren't going well at first, did I mention Yearning™️, eventually, feelings of hopelessness, long periods of time alone?, okay it might take a little while to get to the happy, or at least I like to think it will be, they do eventually try to get better, we as the writers will suffer long enough for it to feel like slow burn, yikes this is a lot of warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosscoveredking/pseuds/mosscoveredking, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TicciCam7/pseuds/TicciCam7
Summary: Dream and Nightmare have been sickly as of late, and neither of them can quite figure out exactly what it is, but Nightmare isn't about to let himself be getting weak, and he's nearly certain that Dream has what he needs to recover. All he has to do is wring the answer out of him. Will the old memories make it more of a struggle, though? Can he trust the others not to interfere more than he orders them to? We can only wait and see...
Relationships: Bad Gays - Relationship, Bad Sans Poly, Dream/Nightmare - Relationship, Dream/Nightmare but they're husbands not brothers, Dreammare, Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: Loss of consciousness, non-sexual bondage, descriptions of a horrible headache, mentions of hours-long periods of isolation, analogy made of bugs in uncomfortable places (but not actual bugs, just a sensory comparison), implications of previous deprivation and bad self-care, bad coping mechanisms, and feelings of hopelessness. 
> 
> Hoo boy that's a lot of warnings, but we're just bein thorough here. This one's got a lotta healing to get through. Hope y'all enjoy!

Teetering on the edge of subconscious and oblivion, there are memories of damp fall mornings spent enjoying the crisp weather with warm coffee in hand. Locked away in that space is a time Dream couldn’t have caffeine without imprudent amounts of milk and sugar. Black coffee thick enough to cut is all he ever drinks these days. Maybe he can’t spare the effort or the extra cream, or maybe he’s found a masochistic comfort in the taste he hates so much. 

Presently, he sighs, and the sound exudes a deep-seated sickness. His temples throb, scoring the inside of his skull. His dead gaze doesn’t move from the mess of papers in front of him as he rubs the sides of his head pitilessly. Lines of data, lists of people and places, plans upon plans of distributing resources to worlds stuck under that crepuscular grasp - they blur together, letters becoming fuzzy and melting from the pages. 

He sinks further into himself, leaving behind the world of administrivia and cohesive thought for the insidious malady that’s been poisoning his body. He’s had a migraine brewing for half a week now, ready to hatch and bloom into something vile, his joints ache with every twitch like there’s rust packed between his bones, and the cavity behind his face feels bulging with mucus. The insides of his bones ache, as if his marrow had been replaced with acid and writhing maggots all the way to the tips of his phalanges. Each breath feels a little more labored than the last, and he wonders how he ever held his head up without the help of his hands and the table. 

He needed a drink. He couldn’t recall how many weeks this has been plaguing him. Pushing it aside, he plucked up the scraps of strength left and wrestled his mind back into his trembling body. 

He stood from his chair slowly, bracing his hands on the table. Blue, a few feet away and swimming in his own sea of paperwork and prioritization, looked up at him. There was a question waiting in the front of his mouth, Dream sensed, the beginnings of a request or suggestion, but the words died soundlessly alongside the thoughts before so much of a twitch could give them away. Dream let his hands fall to his side and trod into the kitchen, step careful. 

Ink might have said something from his place against the wall. A comment on the guardian’s appearance, perhaps, on the number of times he wobbled during the short walk to the coffee pot, or an unapologetic, endearingly honest, “You look _awful_.” Dream wasn’t listening, not that he could hear over this pounding, screaming headache.

Dream stared detachedly at the mug now full with inky-black coffee. His knees pulsed, quavering, hands grasping the countertop and head low. He knew he looked pitiful. He took deep breaths that shook in his ribcage to steel himself for the long journey back to the table, then slowly took the mug in both hands and stood up a little straighter. He turned to what was once the dining room, repurposed to be a festering hive of paperwork and imposition, and took a few steps. The world fell down around him and ceramic shattered.

Two auras spiked in different ways. Then the room was full, and his _head_ was full. Half a dozen auras violated his soul. Something grabbed him by his arms, the back of his neck, his tunic, it was loud and enraged, fueled by injustice. Magic familiar like the depths of depression clasped his soul, and as quickly as it had all turned to hell, everything stopped.

\---

Waking up, all is muddled and unsure. This place, wherever it is, has a certain miasma of negativity and a biting physical cold. That is what he registers first above all, but it’s when he tries to move that he finally notices he’s restricted. Is he bound with magic, or rope? He’d need to clear his sight and senses to even figure that out. Everything is so blurry at the moment and he doesn’t know why. 

Shut. Open. 

He shakes his head, then blinks again and looks around. Yes, as it turns out there _are_ ropes around his arms, keeping them behind the chair. A quick glance down and a twitch of legs confirms they’re bound as well, and he breathes a slow sigh, sinking into it. It’s not as if he has the energy to try and escape, and if he’s correct in his assumption of where he is-- _Footsteps._

Dream’s body stiffens, eyes wide, but he goes completely still, knowing compliance is the way to go about this before all else. This place is dim, and the steps echo, the sound reminding him of the close walls of a cave rather than the openness of a cathedral. _It’s not safe here._ Yet he sits still, posture tense as a bowstring drawn taut. A figure slowly makes its way to what he can assume is the door of the cell, and there’s the jangle of keys.

The door swings slowly open with a screech that makes Dream wince, his remaining headache protesting the loud sound and pulling a groan of displeasure from the back of his throat. There’s a low chuckle from his captor - the sort of sick schadenfreude he’d find to be the usual for who he suspects it is. When Nightmare brings a chair around to set it in front of Dream and perch himself there with the same attitude as if it were his throne, neither of them say a word.

Silence. 

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

It’s… unsettling. Still, Dream stays stiff as the chair he’s bound to. He dares not break the silence, keeping defiant eye contact as Nightmare stares him down, unblinking. 

After what feels like hours, Nightmare finally moves, and Dream flinches, not having expected him to twitch from where he had been so statue-still. A dark hand is lifted to his face, and he leans away from it, but Nightmare continues on, gripping Dream’s chin between thumb and forefinger. Dream is ready to jerk out of his grasp, but it’s Nightmare who pulls away, swiftly, as if burned. He hisses his frustration, then glides out of the cell all too quickly for someone anywhere near calm. There’s the sound of the door slamming, that horrid screech that hits Dream’s senses like claws in his spine, and then the echo of receding footsteps.

Dream slumps over, half relieved and half exhausted, trying to think of why Nightmare had come in just to say… nothing. Nothing at all. That one touch, though, and his presence, it felt _right,_ and he doesn’t know quite how to explain it to himself. He’ll brush it off for now. The real question is how long he’ll be waiting for another visit.

The answer comes sooner than expected. Not that it didn’t feel like an eternity with nothing to tell him the amount of time he had spent listening to the sounds of the empty dungeon except his own senses. He didn’t trust those anyway, not in this state. After so long straining his hearing, the sound of someone making their way closer almost hurts. The footsteps are heavy and sluggish, but not stomping, simply as one who walks as though they are bound to the earth. If Dream were to guess, he’d say it’s either Dust or Horror. Not as though he really has to - he’ll know soon. 

“Heya Dream,” comes the rough rasp of Horror’s voice, and the door is unlocked and opened again, much to Dream’s relief and his headache’s displeasure. “How’s yer stay been?” The heavy drawl is an easy identifier, so Dream isn’t surprised when Horror seats himself comfortably in the chair across from him. What really gets the weakened guardian’s attention is the plate of food in his hand. _Food._

Dream has to take a moment to think when the last time was that he sat down and had a proper meal with his team instead of holding himself aloft on snacks and the occasional food item that might qualify loosely as a meal, like a slice of pizza. Yet here he is, weaker than he’s ever been, in the hands of enemies, and for the first time in forever he’s presented with a proper meal, the mashed potatoes still steaming and the steak pieces already cut into manageable (and very juicy, if looks are anything to go by) bites. Dream whimpers just the slightest as he stares, too desperate for it to really conceal his hunger from the man in front of him. 

“I gotcha, I gotcha, calm down. Ain’t gonna torture ya w’th it, jus’ open yer mouth. Boss sent me down here fer ya ta eat. His excuse’s ta ‘be a good host’ er some distancing bull.” Scrape of metal against ceramic, and Horror lifts the fork to Dream’s mouth. Dream doesn’t think to hesitate before opening up, starved for however much he can get. There’s a gruff chuckle from Horror, who tilts his head at Dream and places the fork in his mouth, feeding him with a surprising gentleness. Dream tries not to think about the fact that Horror is _spoonfeeding_ \-- well. It’s a fork, but it’s just an expression. Not that it matters. Horror feels kind, somewhat warm. Strange, that one of his captors makes him feel safe.

It doesn’t take long before Dream has finished his food, and he feels quite a bit better, like the light has returned to his bones. At least the disgusting crawling sensation has abated. It isn’t gone, no, but it’s less bothersome now. Not that this place isn’t cold and soaked with negativity, but at least he’s recovering. “Alrighty, now I think yer better ta answer. How’s yer stay been?”

“...Strange.” It’s hoarse, and Dream takes a moment to cough before getting a glass of water pressed to his lips. There’s a noise of confusion from somewhere in his throat, but he opens his mouth and lets Horror pour the water into his open mouth. After a few sips, Dream clears his throat and shakes his head, blinking. “Okay, that is… much better. Do you know why he brought me here?”

Horror shrugs, and the motion looks like creaky wooden joints trying to move after too long staying still. “Been all cranky an’ tired, says it’s yer fault. Dunno why that meant bringin’ ya in, but ah… Ya didn’ look too hot yerself there. Ya need food an’ rest if yer gonna be able ta tell th’ boss why he ain’t feelin’ right, an’ I ain’t ‘bout ta object in helpin’ ya not starve. ‘Ere, have s’me more water. Ye’ll need it.” The glass is lifted to his lips again.

\---

Being what he is - culmination of energy, dryad, demigod, he's taken many titles over the years - Dream has never had a need for sleep. There were once days of indulgent summer afternoons and cozy winter nights spent dozing the hours away, but time for such solicitude evaporated in the inferno of that broken oath. Great terrors wait behind his eyes - black tar too thick to swim in, the stench of a thousand burning bodies, apple orchards, a roiling sea of his own wrath, and the unforgiving binding of purpose and bark. He can’t remember the last time he slept. He doesn’t want to.

The rope chafed his wrists and ankles, and the awkward angle had spawned aching in his shoulders. He was practiced in absconding from bonds such as these, but that was a moot point considering the state of his magic. Although the food and water certainly helped, the sickness, headache, and nauseating animus weighing down on him ensured he wouldn’t be going anywhere. It’d be better to play along, he reasoned - although loosening them a little couldn’t hurt.

He manipulated the ties and wondered idly who did the knotwork. His fingers and mind, made clumsy by circumstance, lost all their usual deftness. The ropes binding his hands were soon sufficiently loosened nonetheless. His ankles, he supposed, would simply have to suffer.

Looking around, the cell was surprisingly clean, no evidence of pests scuttering about or mold festering in the corners. It smelled more of petrichor and early fall breezes than of stale dust and rot. There was a small window near the ceiling where meager starlight filtered from, peeking through the dismal clouds blowing by that tore themselves apart and regrouped in an everlasting war. The ruddy flicker of torchlight poured in from the cell door behind him, painting red and gold onto the dark stones like an enraged mob paints the night sky. The unrefined stone looked achingly rough, and Dream was suddenly thankful for the stiff chair.

Dream tried to use this time as productively as possible, attempting to prioritize his errands after his eventual escape and go over previously formulated plans for that feat. His mind, however, kept pulling him back to the persistent affliction in his body and the bitter hatred gnawing at his soul. 

Silence lorded over the dungeon, and Dream tried to recall the last time he heard so little sound. No scribbling of pens or tapping of fingers, no shuffling fabrics or feet, no crickets or tree frogs to break up the night air. When he stilled his breathing, he heard only the mana pulsing around his soul. 

Perhaps a light rest wouldn’t be so profligate. His inability to focus was upsetting, and he knew letting his anger rise or morph into self-deprecation would serve to fuel his vile counterpart. He could think of no better way to pass the time (if that was even a concept in this locked-away pocket dimension), assuming he could fend off the night terrors that pined for his misery.

And even then, a bit of a bad dream sounded like a fair trade. As his posture slowly collapsed, he realized how exhausted his body was. He thought vaguely of those frigid winter nights made cozy by hearth and woolen blanket, and sleep sounded divine. His eyes closed in full, the last dregs of light slipping away from him, and he welcomed the dark embrace imploringly.

The smell of grass wraps around him, fresh and green and lively, and periwinkle flowers dance in his vision. The sky is a crystal-clear azure with cotton clouds drifting afloat as enormous white whales, but he’s not focused on that. There’s the buzz of lovely bumblebees bobbing on buttercups and imagery of golden honey dripping languorously, but he doesn’t really care about those things either. No, Dream’s focus lies somewhere else entirely, and his heart does, too. It’s hands, softened by the pages of old books, brushing against his in the most delicate way, it’s the gentle breath of lavender and frail moonlight on his cheek--

He jolted awake violently. Momentum heaved. The chair _plummeted._ Forward, forward, his body rolled in its bonds and he screamed, feet not grazing the ground, writhing like his arms meant to pull themselves out of the sockets. Just exactly before stone split open Dream’s skull, something halted time itself and seized the back of the chair.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the seat was righted. Dream could only stare wide-eyed at the ground he’d nearly shattered himself on and wonder _when_ the cruel maestro suspending him would let go and watch him drop. His headache suddenly seemed trivial. 

All four feet were returned to the ground and the tendril returned to its owner. Dream could just feel the smugness leaking off of him, pleased in a deeply sickening way. Dream grit his teeth and collected his breath as dignified as one could.

Mucilaginous ice wrapped the thin bones of his wrist, bumping and edging the coarse rope. Nightmare hovered close to his prisoner and did not speak, sadistic grin spread across his mucoid visage. He could snap the bones just as easily as he could tighten the bondage, and his course of action depended solely upon capricious whims. Dream heard him breathe in deeply, reveling in the fear Dream was trying so hard to repress. There was a little more pressure on his ulna.

The rope dropped to the floor and the tendrils pulled away languidly. He could still feel Nightmare lingering behind him, self-satisfied down to his core.

\---

Long after Nightmare left Dream alone with nothing but the silence, the cold, and his thoughts, the phantom sensation of Nightmare’s hands against his wrists still lingers. No amount of absentminded fidgeting makes it leave, and at a certain point Dream decides it isn’t worth the effort. In fact… Well, this must be him losing his wits, but it almost feels pleasant. No, it _does_ feel pleasant. He frowns, eyeing the affected areas with suspicion and running a thumb softly over it. Surely Nightmare’s touch should leave behind _negative_ effects, with them being polar opposites in energy, positivity and negativity, fire and ice. 

… Right? 

A melody dances on that stream of thoughts, and Dream pointedly ignores it.

\---

Now of course, the others of the castle are wildly curious about their new prisoner. Yes, yes, they’re glad Nightmare is no longer on the edge of dusting, but with that immediate concern out of the way, they have to wonder about Dream. Is he really the thing that was making their boss the most miserable they’d ever seen him? Surely not, he seemed so weak when they took him, clearly he couldn’t cause such an ill in someone so powerful. 

Why their boss didn’t seem to understand that was surely not their business, and none of them had the gall to call him an idiot. So they sat amongst themselves and made quiet bets where the king, the dark overlord, could not hear.

Perhaps the victims were getting too boring and Nightmare wanted a more interesting playtoy?

Maybe he was keeping Dream hostage to make the remaining Star Sanses upset and ruin their morale. 

Maybe they have a secret relationship and Nightmare wanted to make it easier to see Dream without rousing suspicion? Everyone was quick to dismiss Killer on that assumption. How ridiculous! They had all laughed and brushed it off, including Killer. Nobody even noticed Cross slip away. 

So maybe he was getting a glass of water for Nightmare; he’s just as concerned as Horror is about the king, so it’s only right that he should help care for Nightmare. Not that Nightmare ever seemed to appreciate being checked in on. There were various excuses; he’s a grown man-- five hundred, moon’s sake!-- and does not need someone to care for him, he’s not a sap and none of them are his lovers, there is absolutely no need to be so worried, if he needs something he will _call for it,_ thank you very much. Not encouraging for Cross, but he knows that is simply how Nightmare functions. 

That night, however, when Cross went to check on Nightmare, the door was open a crack, and there was the scratching of pen against paper. Peeking in, he found Nightmare at his desk. Not unusual, really. Often Nightmare does paperwork, so it’s not uncommon to find him at his desk and writing. He keeps claw-like metal accessories on the desk specifically so he can handle the papers without staining them. Why he doesn’t pass the paperwork on to anyone else has been a question with an ever-elusive answer, but it may have been that the king of darkness simply enjoys his paperwork. Not that it seemed to be paperwork on the elegant lord’s desk. This time, he had his claws on, pen in hand, but what he was writing on was not a sheet in a pile, it was… a notebook. A notebook, bound in leather-- or so Cross believes, the candlelight made it harder to discern what material the cover is made of-- and full of thick pages. He held a calligraphy pen rather than the usual ballpoint, and the ink was silver, but even the reflection of the light on the ink told Cross nothing of what was being written.

The real question was, what is this book? Nightmare could be writing a novel, but he doesn’t seem to be the type to write stories. A book of poetry? More likely, but from the way Nightmare’s head turned at an unnatural speed to look at Cross before he sprang to his feet to approach the door, Cross had a better guess than any of those. A journal. It could be a journal.

Cross is the newest there, so he’d never seen Nightmare journal. Dream’s appearance, sudden journaling… He wouldn’t tell anyone, but he had to figure it out for himself. He was determined to. None of the others would take this as seriously or be as good at stealth, he would have to keep a close eye. He hopes that whatever it is will be beneficial to his lord and commander.

Killer, on the other hand, oblivious as he ever was, had decided to start coming down to ogle at Dream. Not speak, not appear in front of, and he was always careful to make sure his steps blended into the silence, soft enough to doubt, but just to watch. He thought Dream would never catch him, but Dream knew. Of course he knew. He’s an empath just as Nightmare is, but Killer didn’t take that into account. He didn’t take the time to think that maybe, _just maybe,_ the fact that both Dream and Nightmare have emotional auras may mean that Dream also has Nightmare’s ability to sense emotions. 

Dream found it strange, at first, that this strangely excitable visitor would just… sit. It wasn’t like Nightmare, who came into the cell himself and sat in silence, but instead a silent visitor who preferred to observe. Fine by him, it wasn’t as though there was anything he needed to hide, and this visitor was never there at the same time as anyone else. It was almost endearing, just to have the comfort of someone else’s presence there with him, and the fact that they likely think he doesn’t know they’re there. 

Killer, on the other hand, was always so proud and pleased with himself for not getting caught. Maybe he found himself staring, getting as much of a look as he could, but mostly he sat and basked in the faintest trace of returning aura from Dream. The one time he got cocky enough to believe he could fall asleep there, he was promptly kicked out by Horror. Better Horror than Nightmare, he had told himself. It was nice to sleep there, though. Not that he’d tell anyone. 

\---

_The moon brings light to your tears… Tell me, ancient guardian, why do you mourn? What ache makes its home deep in your soul?_

_None but my own wrongs._


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~CONTENT WARNINGS~  
> Mentioned: helplessness, broken bones/dislocation/injuries, torture, blood, disease, head trauma, poisoning, betrayal  
> Implied: alcoholism, eating disorder, abusive relationship (kind of?)  
> Described: self-harm, non-sexual bondage, being watched  
> \-----------  
> Hoo boy this one's gonna be fun. Welcome to: everyone has emotions and nobody knows what's going on: part 2 electric boogaloo

He had been weak.

He had been _powerless._

Nightmare has been in hell for months, descending lower into flames of rage and agony with every stuttered breath. Each step that wobbled had been blood in the water, an open wound begging to be torn further, and every weakness screamed to be taken advantage of.

He can handle broken bones. He can handle mangled limbs and severed magic - the melted hatred encasing him took care of those nicely. It wasn’t the pain of the illness that bothers him, not at all. Pain is the detailed artwork that serves as the backdrop for his entire life. It’s the helplessness that tortured him, the unease in his walk, the haze of nails and rotting blood that beat against his senses until they were useless. He’s blind, debilitated, and weaker than he had been in centuries.

Naturally he was livid. No mortal thing, disease or spell, could do this to him. Had he even gotten sick since… since then? What had happened?

The answer, of course, is Dream. It has to be. Even though he’d only consumed a bare fraction of what Nightmare did, even though he’s currently on the losing end of this multiversal war, even though his only two “friends” consists of a typical incode and an ink blotch who arguably did more harm than good, Dream is still the only being that could match his power. He’s the closest thing to an equal Nightmare has ever known, and he does it not through cursed fruits or godlike company, but through sheer force of will.

Of course it was Dream who’d planted this illness. So it was he who was going to pay and, of equal importance, fix it. The plan was simple. Abduct him and then do whatever it takes to get answers out of him. 

They weren’t expecting him to look like he’d already been dragged through hell. And then just… immediately pass out. 

Nightmare also wasn’t expecting his soul to do the things it did when he saw him like that. Dirtied, exhausted, ill. Vulnerable.

The plan was to let his charges handle most of the dirty work as usual - Dust craves the distraction like nothing else, Killer takes joy in watching them beg, and Cross is just that eager to please his king. But when Nightmare saw him, he didn’t want anyone’s filthy hands on him, at least for now. And already the malady was beginning to wane, so it couldn’t hurt to simply… let him rest.

\---

Nightmare, lord of all things vile and corrupter of all things good, does not cry. Nightmare, hear his name and tremble, rules over entire universes with black hearted cruelty and controls an empire that produces constantly for his own sadistic needs. He does not cry. It has been epochs since he last held himself and weeped, or since he had any need to at all. Nightmare, ruler of beast and man alike, regrets no choice and feels no sympathy.

He does not encase himself in layers upon layers of heavy quilts and minky blankets searching for the warmth that left him long ago. He never loses control over his emotions or lets the vile tar run freely and stain the floors. He does not look up at the moon, vision distorted with toxins and tears, and ache for something ~~to hold him~~ to grasp other than down pillows and ancient tomes. 

He does not traverse his castle’s shadows and twisting corridors for hours on end keeping close tabs on his underlings’ auras, nor does he feel any semblance of remorse when stalking the dungeons. And for the love of the moon and stars, he does not keep a diary.

There would be no room for remorse in a soul so full of hatred. 

And yet… and yet. Thoughts of Dream’s fall are fluttering around his head like terrified bats. He would have been _hurt_ if not for Nightmare’s reflexes. And it’s not that Nightmare hasn’t seen him hurt before with his head split open and limbs out of place, or been kept awake by fantasies of crunching his ribs under foot. But when he saw him jolt awake like that, his first reaction was to stop it. For a brief flash, there was true, icy fear rushing through his bones as he dove to catch Dream. And god, did it piss him off.

He rose from his chair, slipping off the silver claws as he did so, and opened a pathway forged in agony. 

Chilled autumn air brushes his viscous cheek after he appears outside the castle, head straight and shoulders back. He needs to clear his mind, and is about to leave for one of his more miserable worlds when something makes him pause. He can’t place it, a scent, flash on the horizon, or feeling in his soul, but it grabs his ankles and holds him. It begs him to stay close.

So he does, purely out of his own volition and curiosity. He stands outside the castle entrance, trying to place what had piqued his interest. 

The stars are nice this early morning, free from curtains of thick, warring clouds, and the dazzle of galaxies would have caught a lesser monster’s attention.

The sun in this homemade dimension is pathetic. It’s a washed out tangerine color, its light is cold like winter air, and it stays joined to the east horizon. It barely peeks over the windswept hills, creeping above for bare hours in midday before slinking shamefully back to its nest hidden from the world’s sole inhabitants. The sky remains a perfect backdrop for Nightmare’s creations at all times.

The stars are brilliant here. Originally, this world had none. The sky was entirely blank before Nightmare filled it, placing each star as a burning pinprick of rage and hatred. Billions upon billions revealed clouds of color woven into the black - velvety indigos and azure streaks morphing into rich purples and dusty mauve, ebbing and flowing in constant, mesmerizing swirls slower than one can see. They were raindrops on spiderwebs interwoven and overlapping a million times over, filling the space outside of this little field to eternity. 

Nightmare sighs and returns to his tired body, focusing back to deciding where he’s going. The ailment still plaguing him seemed to flare brighter the longer he stands here, buzzing down to his hands again, and he lets himself sigh. He doesn’t feel like leaving anymore. 

\---

Dust’s footsteps, it turns out, are an exact opposite to Horror’s. They’re indecipherable from the creep of shadows along stone, the sound of gray clouds masking the sky. The skeleton himself, however, is incapable of keeping quiet. 

Dream was pondering the situation - why Nightmare had yet to say a single word to him when in battle he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, why he would bind him when he knew it’d be useless, why keep him here and not do anything for a full day, what gut-churning plan they’ve set in motion upon his capture, why Horror took such care in feeding him last night when he was sure they would take turns torturing him later, and why, why, why would Nightmare be watching him sleep, first of all, and then save him at the last possible moment? - when rough humming drains into the silence, broken up by whispers and a small, awful scraping sound. A once-sharp bite of pain made dull by repetition follows each click. The aura coming down from the hall is new but recognizable, full of ghosts and a hot, aching need for violence.

Dream feels Killer’s aura creeping away when Dust approaches, a little bitter and heavy with longing. 

The guardian listens and hears snippets of stories, mostly concerning food, it seems. Horror this and Horror that, care, burned, nearly _wasted_ (that word is hissed clearly, one of the few Dream is sure of), disorder. Every now and then, laughter echoes down the wall, brittle, fake, and teeming with submissive self-deprecation. When he isn’t chattering, he’s humming some agitated, confused tune, staccato with turbulent leaps from note to note. His voice is shredded from overuse, and Dream doubts he can raise it much higher than his current volume.

“Dust?” the guardian calls after an especially worrying scrape and click. 

If he had answered, it was indistinguishable.

“Dust.”

“ _What,_ ” the hooded skeleton rasps as loud as he can.

Dream wiggles in the chair, still bound at the ankles and unwilling to mess with the ties, trying to scootch to be facing the cell door. It does not work. “What are you doing here this time of night?”

There is no answer, but the guardian can feel Dust staring at him.

“...Day? What time is it?”

Suddenly, Dust’s anger lashes out in his chest, winging and thrashing like a bird chained at the ankle. He inhales deeper and sharper, snarls, and whips away. 

Dream is alone in the corridor once again. 

\---

Now, watching Dream is all well and good, but it’s _boring,_ and what fun is it if Dream doesn’t know he’s there? He wants to get something out of Dream, a reaction, a conversation, information, _something,_ not just watch him. He can’t do that from where he’s been, no… 

Killer tiptoes his way up to the cell, whisper-quiet, hardly enough for Dream to hear, then comes to a halt, waiting to see if he snuck up properly. Dream still can’t see him and doesn’t seem to react in any way, so… He’ll take that as a success. “Boo!” He bursts into a fit of giggles, not even waiting for the reaction, simply expecting Dream to jump. Dream does not jump. He didn’t even flinch. _Well that’s hardly any fun._ Killer’s laughter stops and he makes a disappointed noise at Dream.

“Hello, Killer,” the guardian responds calmly, and the amused grin he wears can almost be heard in his voice. Killer scowls and crosses his arms with an annoyed huff. He can’t just let Dream _taunt_ him like that. 

“You didn’t even flinch! What are you, a statue?” 

There’s a low grumble from beyond the bars, and the mood shifts to something a bit darker, some of the warmth draining from the area. Something along the lines of “I once was,” is heard in a mutter from Dream, and he shifts. It seems Killer struck a bit of a sore spot with that. He’ll have to keep that one in mind, that would be an interesting subject to explore. Maybe some bit of the truth is there that will give him the secret that Nightmare is looking for? Later, later, but if Killer can get the answer out of him when nobody else can, he might as well try it. 

“You do know I can sense your aura, right?” 

Killer stops to consider this, then the similarities and ties between Dream and Nightmare. Paired names, opposite jobs, sworn enemies for _some_ reason, whatever that was. Nightmare never told them. He then calls himself twenty kinds of idiot and leans against the bars, cursing quietly. _Of course they’d have the same abilities._

“Okay, so you caught me, I totally knew that. I just didn’t feel like talking to you yet. I was just watching, but that was boring. You don’t move much.” This earns a grunt of annoyance from Dream. “So what’d you do to get you kidnapped, huh? You poison the boss or something? And what happened to you? You look like _shit,_ sir.” The assassin leans against the bars, which give a sound of protest that makes him pull away again. 

“Oh yes, thank you for noticing my master plan, I thought everyone here was dumb and would _never_ get it. I invited Nightmare over for tea, laced his drink, and he never noticed. Muahaha, I’m so evil, I _poisoned your boss._ ” Dream gives a sarcastic little victory speech, then laughs bitterly. “No, dipshit, it’s not like I know what’s hurting either of us. Maybe you could ask him about it, he _would_ sabotage me.” Under all this bitterness, Dream is confused. _Why would Nightmare be weak, too?_ It had to be an inside job or something he didn’t know about.

“...Uh-huh. Right.” Well, that explained nothing. “Then why haven’t you tried to escape?”

“Does it look like I’m in any state to?” 

Well. Dream does look tired, worn… “Not really, no. That hasn’t stopped you before, though. What’s stopping you this time?” He had escaped weakened before, no trouble. “Why were you even trying so hard to get back before? You don’t seem to be in much of a hurry _now._ ” Surely if those friends of his were so important last time there has to be something significant keeping him here this time. 

“I… Something in this place is helping.” He knows that. He doesn’t know what _about_ it is helping, but he knows it’s helping, and free healing is invaluable at the moment. “If I’m being healed, what reason do I have to be leaving yet? And… Well, Ink and Blue are my… I have a job to fulfill. I have my devotion to my friends and the safety of the multiverse.” Dream finishes firmly, though there’s something uncertain in that second answer, an edge of doubt. 

Killer grins, a little too wide to be natural, but it’s not as if Dream can see it. There’s a new smugness to his voice, though. “Awww, so the widdle hero thinks his fwiends would be as loyal as he is, doesn’t even have a moment of doubt? Can’t tell me you _haven’t_ thought about betrayal. The possibility that any one of you could leave that little group of yours at any time. Especially _you_ , you’re so much more powerful than them…” Killer’s tone weaves silky temptation, coaxing fingers guiding him along to the seductive dark, smoke filtered through the cracks in defenses. 

Dream really does consider it. He’s silent for far too long, but when he realizes he’s flirting with the idea of what Killer has offered up, he immediately coughs and shakes his head with a soft growl directed at the bars behind him. “No, I wouldn’t.” (Here, it is quiet and easy in the dark, and maybe it isn’t comfortable, but he has dreamed a proper good dream for the first time in many years.) “Don’t try to _tempt me,_ you stand no chance.” It sounds weaker than it should, but that can be excused by his current physical state. He hopes Killer thinks of it that way. He wasn’t _tempted_ , it was just a possibility. A possibility…? No, no, just a _hypothetical._ Not a possibility. He wouldn’t surrender, he wouldn’t join them against Ink and Blue.

Keys jingle. “Mmhm.” _Creeeeak._ Dream winces. Even if his headache isn’t as crushing at this point, the sound is still obnoxious. “You need some hugs, don’tcha? It must get lonely, spending so much time all alone down here with nobody to hold.” Killer pouts, then finally walks around in front of the chair to reveal himself to Dream.

Dream makes a face. He hasn’t had proper contact with someone in a good while, true, but Killer isn’t exactly… Well, he isn’t all that bad, actually. “Fine, but don’t try anything out of line." Killer gives him a look of false confusion. "You know exactly what I mean by that.” 

"Sooo… Can I sit in your lap? Looks cozy," Killer says, mostly teasing at this point but still at least half-serious.

" _Absolutely not,_ " Dream cuts down that suggestion quickly, cheeks flushing gold in irritation and embarrassment. There was no way he was letting Killer sit on his lap. What, and take advantage of him? He's not taking the chance.

"Okay, okay, I was joking, sheesh…" Killer mutters, draping himself across the back of the chair dramatically before wrapping an arm around Dream and rubbing circles into Dream's arm as he thinks.

This is an awful decision, truly one of the less advisable ones on his list, but the dungeon is mind-numbingly dull and quiet. If Killer will stick around and break that up, perhaps Dream will keep his sanity intact. “Soooo…” Killer walks his fingers idly across Dream’s shoulder, snuggling closer as well as he can with just this limited contact, “What’s the deal with you and the boss anyway? I mean yeah, seems like he has a personal vendetta against you, but I have no clue why.” 

“He’s emotionally constipated, take a guess,” Dream grumbles. Well that just makes for even more questions, doesn’t it? 

“I mean- I never really _questioned _it, I just know I get free food and lodging and people to mess with here. I mean sure, you’re part of a team, but…” Killer fidgets with Dream’s altered cape and Dream gives a noise of warning that makes Killer shift his focus to something else. What is it about the cape…? “He never seems to go for Ink or Blue, leaves them to us. You’re easily the most powerful of all of them, you’d think he’d take you on side-by-side with someone. Nah. Always alone. Something’s between you two, and he won’t share.”__

__“He really hasn’t told you?” Dream looks surprised for a moment, reconsiders, then just looks exasperated. “He’s known me a good deal longer than any of you, and we used to be on good terms.” An understatement, but Dream doesn’t really have the energy to go over why their relationship is strained, especially not to Killer. “Best to ask him if you want to know I suppose. It’s not my place to give away his secrets.”_ _

__“Aww, why not, spoilsport? Isn’t he your enemy anyway? Don’t you _want_ to give his secrets away? C’moooon!” Killer whines at Dream, leaning over to give him his best puppydog eyes. _ _

__Dream winces. Enemies… He remembers his dream, soft hands, dancing lavender, the touch of moonlight, and suddenly he looks so much more melancholy. His soul aches for those times, back when things were simpler and they had nothing to worry about but each other. There was once a time when they were close, not enemies. “I… No, that’s not something I would do to him. If he didn’t think you should know, then I’m not going to give that information freely.”_ _

___“I should hope not.”_ _ _

__Dream’s attention is jerked away from the past by the present rather quickly as Killer’s weight suddenly leaves his shoulders. His head snaps up to find Killer pinned to the wall by a dark tendril, a bit of the black fluid splashed on the wall from impact and dripping slowly onto the floor. Nightmare enters the cell slowly, but his attention is locked on Killer rather than Dream._ _

__“What do you think you’re doing, Killer.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all until next chapter, folks! Good luck figuring out what's gonna happen to Killer. :D

**Author's Note:**

> There's no guarantee on an update schedule, but your comments and kudos are definitely a big motivation for us!


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